


A Flaw in This Design

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Crack, Dinner, Food, Gen, Sandwiches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt over at the Hannibal Kink Meme: "So Hannibal is really good at making food, as we know. BUT his sandwiches just aren't good... but Will is the sandwich master. He is amazing at making sandwiches... Hannibal cannot deal with this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flaw in This Design

**Author's Note:**

> So after writing Dog Eat Dog I needed something ridiculous and cracky to cheer myself up. This is the result. Based on a prompt over at the Hannibal kink meme:
> 
> "So Hannibal is really good at making food, as we know. BUT his sandwiches just aren't good. Like the peanut butter is never quite spread to all the edges, or he adds kale, or it has to be held together by like nine toothpicks, etc…. but Will is the sandwich master. He is amazing at making sandwiches. They do blindfolded taste tests and Will always wins. Hannibal cannot deal with this. Bonus points for Hannibal crying about it to Alana on the phone at all hours of the night or possibly spending multiple therapy sessions with Bedelia freaking out about it."

Will wasn’t at all surprised when his phone rang. It was that kind of day. 

“Hannibal,” he sighed. 

“Why, Will,” the doctor’s cultured voice oozed down the wire. “I was unaware that your abilities had extended to telepathy and precognition.” 

“You’re the only one who calls the landline.” 

“Ah. Then I would be correct in assuming that you are not currently entertaining guests?”

“Ha. Ha.” 

“Perhaps some company then? I could bring lunch.” 

Will scrubbed at his face. He’d been a little… snippy at the day’s crime scene. Beverly had only half jokingly attributed it to low blood sugar and the need for a nap. Jack, already raving about their lack of progress in the Ripper case, asked heatedly if Will required “Nanny Lecter” to feed him. He may have petulantly kicked snow onto his boss’s trousers and stomped off, but the whole afternoon was a bit hazy. 

“Jack called you, didn’t he?” he asked. 

“I have been worried about your health, Will. Jack’s call only solidified my concerns. Please, join me for lunch.” 

“I’m really tired.” 

“I can come to you.” 

“But I’m not that hungry,” Will knew he was whining. Maybe if he was rude enough Hannibal would leave him be. 

No such luck. “Something simple then. A sandwich, perhaps?”

His mind immediately filled with the smell of fresh bread and smooth, fruity jams. There was something he’d been craving…

“PB&J?”

A huff. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “If by that childish acronym you mean peanut butter and jelly, I do believe I can manage that. Though I must insist that you have something other then sugary spreads.” Winston snuggled up to his legs and Will rested his head against fur, closing his eyes as Hannibal’s voice turned serious. “I have a lovely spinach salad from last night. I will bring you a plate.”

“No one eats salad with PB&J, Hannibal.” 

“I insist. Does 12:30 suit?” 

Will glanced at the clock. It gave him just enough time to shower and pick up the more prominent clumps of dog hair. The place was a mess from too many horrifying days and long, sleepless nights. The last thing he wanted was Hannibal’s designer clothes anywhere near this warzone but he was offering food and Will had sacrificed all his peanut butter to the dogs. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. No rush though.”

“Very well. I will see you soon, Will.” 

“Right. See you—” but the line was already dead. Will sighed. 

He had a lot of cleaning up to do. 

***

By the time he heard the smooth purr of Hannibal’s car Will’s home was a good deal cleaner and he himself was in a far better mood. He’d made cleaning into a game with the dogs, telling each of them to “get a toy” and bring it to him while he stood by the closet. As far as they were concerned everything from smelly clothes to trash was a “toy” so the floor at least was decent. 

He opened the door to a statue of elegance and perfection. 

“Will.” The doctor sported a blue shirt and grey vest, with an intricately detailed tie. The shirtsleeves were rolled and his shoes may have been of a slightly lesser quality leather: Hannibal’s version of dressing down. “It is good to see you.” He held up a single tupperware that Will grabbed at eagerly. The last hour of work had made him ravenous and all at once he was incredibly grateful for his friend’s presence. 

“You too and thanks” he said, mouth watering. He trotted over to the nearby table, already prying up the lid. Hannibal followed at a more sedate pace. “I uh, know I don’t say it much but I really do appreciate this.”

“Nonsense. I am happy to help. Your gratitude is welcome but unnecessary,” he gestured for Will to dig in.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“I already have. A patient of mine is uncomfortable dining alone so we often have lunch together on Thursdays. A tad unorthodox, I admit, but…” Hannibal shrugged, a fluid gesture that Will observed with envy. “Would you care for a drink?” 

“That’d be great.” He’d finally managed to uncap the suctioned top and was too preoccupied to wonder how Hannibal knew where his glasses were. Or the bottled water he kept under the sink, forgotten except in emergencies. “I’ve been craving a PB&J for a while now.” Will rambled. “The dogs like peanut butter in their bones, you know? And it’s been a little too hectic for grocery shopping. This is really—” he stopped, staring at the sandwich. 

This was not a PB&J. 

It was beautiful – everything Hannibal made was – but it was also… wrong. Will poked at the multigrain lump, identifying it as some kind of baguette. Where was the squishy, white bread? Peeling back a corner he could see what was undoubtedly peanut butter, but it was chunky. Who put chunky peanut butter in a PB&J? Who did that? Will couldn’t even be sure what was spread on the other side but he detected a hint of orange that made his nose curl. The whole thing was nestled on a bed of green; the spinach salad Hannibal had promised. 

“Will?” A glass of water was placed next to his hand complete with ice from god only knows where. He looked up at his friend, noting his furrowed brow. “Is something wrong?”

“Hannibal, this is…”

“I told you, Will, there is no need to thank me.” 

Awkward. 

“Right… right.” Maybe looks were deceiving? Hesitantly, Will picked up the sandwich. He could at least give it a try. He made to take a bite and, at Hannibal’s nonexistent glower, made the bite bigger. 

Crunch – through the bread – another crunch as he met the peanut butter, the strong taste of oranges right as he realized it was marmalade, not jelly, the bottom a little soggy from soaking up the spinach juices and… no. Just no. 

Will had swallowed down a lot of bile at crime scenes; this was nearly as bad. He’d never been good at masking his emotions though. 

“You don’t like it.” 

Hannibal settled in the chair across from him, his controlled movements screaming anger and… hurt? 

“Hannibal—”

“It’s quite alright, Will. One cannot always please the audience, it is a lesson all artists must learn.” Hannibal smiled, but the tendons in his neck stood out. He was developing a tick in his jaw. “Perhaps I can make you something here? I only regret that you are going hungry.” 

“No no, that’s not… um…” god, the idea of Hannibal Lecter using his ratty pots and pans, seeing his near empty fridge… Distraction time. “Have you ever made a PB&J before?”

Hannibal stared. 

“I only ask ‘cause,” Will gestured to the mess in the tupperware. 

“No.” Maybe admitting ignorance was a balm because Hannibal started to relax. He adapted what could only be a sheepish expression. “I admit that it hasn’t been a staple of my diet.” 

“Nooo, really?” The tense atmosphere between them thinned even more. “I never thought I’d be giving you culinary advice.”

“One never stops learning, Will.” Hannibal nodded towards the sandwich. “You have suggestions?”

“Oh. Sure.” Will squirmed, not entirely sure where to begin. “Well… there are rules, you know? Any kid could tell you that.” 

Hannibal’s stare made it clear that he had not been ‘any kid.’ 

“Okay. Right. PB&J. Um… first of all, it’s made with white bread. Soft. Wonder Bread if you’ve got it.” Will began to pick up the pace, getting into his explanation. “The peanut butter is always smooth – it’s all about the texture – and I’m not sure what you were thinking with the marmalade. There’s a reason it’s called peanut butter and jelly, Hannibal. I prefer grape, but a lot of people like strawberry. Or raspberry. I don’t know. That just doesn’t work for me. Too many seeds…” Will trailed off, realizing that Hannibal had gone a little too still. 

“There’s really—” he stopped, cleared his throat. Will had never seen him hesitate before. “There’s really that much wrong with it?”

“… Yeah.” Honesty between friends. 

“Ah.” 

“Listen, Hannibal, I’m really sorry—”

“Do not apologize, Will. You have found a flaw that I must rectify. Never apologize for that. Besides, I do enjoy a good challenge.” Hannibal pushed at both of his rolled sleeves as if preparing to tackle another sandwich then and there. “I must admit, though I bow to your expertise in this matter your version seems a tad… boring.” 

“Huh.” He’d never really thought of it like that. “Not really. Not to me. It’s a comfort food. Traditional. Like uh…” what was a comparison Hannibal would understand? “Eggs. You don’t mess with eggs.” 

“I see.” It was clear he didn’t. 

“I guess if you want some variety you can add chips.”

“As a side?”

“No. In the sandwich.”

Hannibal reared back as if the mere idea pained him. “Chips in…”

“No judgment ‘til you’ve tried it.” Will hid a smile. He felt terrible but seeing Hannibal out of his element was… amusing. 

“I wouldn’t think such a thing would be appetizing.”

“It’s all about texture again. It’s not for everyone.” Will stood and picked up the sandwich, fully intending to throw it in the trash where it belonged. It was only when he’d gone half way across the kitchen that he realized how rude that would be. 

“Uh…”

Hannibal waved his concerns away. “Go right ahead, Will. I concede defeat. Though I do hate to see any food go to waste. Perhaps your dogs would like to partake?”

Will did laugh that time, despite how foreign it felt. “Lowering your expectations?” 

Hannibal shrugged, though he did look a little sick. 

With a whistle there were six dogs crowding him, all begging for a bit of the treat. Will tore off a chunk of the sandwich to give to his collie, Diana. She took it eagerly… and then promptly dropped it. 

“Diana?” 

She whined, scooting on her stomach to get a closer look at the sandwich. She nudged it with her nose but didn’t pick it up again. Winston took the lead and gave the bread a lick before abandoning it, turning back to Will. After so many years of looking after strays he was pretty good at speaking Dog. Winston’s look clearly said, ‘Is that the best you can do?’ 

“Hannibal? I don’t want to be mean but… if the dogs don’t like it, that’s pretty bad.” 

Will looked up. Hannibal Lecter, brilliant psychiatrist, culinarian, and all around unflappable gentleman sat with his head in his hands. Whatever acceptance he’d found with his failure was shattered. 

“… Maybe I could give you some pointers?”

His doctor admitted what could only be a growl. 

Maybe not. 

***

The note, when it came, was expected: 

You are cordially invited to dine at the home of   
Dr. Hannibal Lecter  
on Sunday the 16th at 7:00 pm.   
regrets only

“Guess he needs to redeem himself, huh?”

Winston and Alice bark, getting saliva all over Hannibal’s obscenely beautiful penmanship. They apparently find his letters more tasty than his sandwiches because Winston makes a grab for the corner. Will only just pulls the cardstock out from canine teeth. He frowns at the mess, shaking off droplets of spit. 

“You think it’s formal?” he asks with a frown. 

It is. 

Sunday night and Will can’t help but fiddle with his threadbare suit when he notes that Hannibal has chosen gold cufflinks. His own attire isn’t even technically a suit, just slacks and a jacket that are close enough in color to pass for one – at least according to Will’s lax tastes. He notes the dim lighting and a fresh pot of orchids on the side table, both of which speak to Hannibal’s meticulous attention to detail. The only thing that keeps Will from charging back out the door is the reassurance that this is meant to be a small gathering. To his knowledge, only Alana and Jack will be joining them. 

If Hannibal disapproves of Will’s garment choice it doesn’t show. He greets his guest with a handshake and what seems to be a genuine smile. 

“Will,” he says, “I’m thrilled that you decided to join us.” 

“Thanks for inviting me. Guess you wanted to make up for last week huh?”

The second the words are out of his mouth Will wants to kick himself. He feels Hannibal’s fingers tightening against his shoulder. 

“Sorry. I really shouldn’t make jokes.”

“Nothing at all to be sorry for, Will.” Hannibal begins steering them towards the dining room. “As you are about to see, your assumptions are quite apt.” 

“What?” but they’ve arrived and Will gets exactly what Hannibal was trying to say. The dining room, for the most part, is normal, or at least as “normal” as Hannibal Lecter’s can ever be: there’s fine china and more flowers, as well as an opened bottle of wine that’s probably older than Will’s great-great-grandparents. Alana and Jack have already arrived with Jack sporting a suit far nicer than Will’s. Alana, he’s unsurprised to note, is stunning in a Greek inspired gown. The only thing offsetting their elegance is his friends’ awkward huddling by the room’s window. They’re very obviously avoiding the table and with good reason. 

It is positively laden with sandwiches. To an obscene degree. 

There was, quite literally, everything you could imagine. The simple: sandwiches with meat, cheese, and lettuce, toothpicks through the top, nutty crusts peeking out or the crusts cut off, subs and open faced monstrosities, a BLT that looked like it didn’t have nearly enough ‘B’ in it. Alongside the recognizable were also sandwiches that Will couldn’t name; some that he’d be hard pressed to even call sandwiches. A few towered so high they needed brothers to lean against; others would be better labeled as finger food. Will saw pieces of bread containing nothing but condiments, unrecognizable meats, a special little sandwich that looked like it was made entirely out of vegetables (the poor thing). Even those that were recognizable didn’t look appetizing and it seemed that Will wasn’t alone in this opinion. Alana gave the nearest sandwich – rye bread and something… yellow – a nervous poke. When it sucked in her finger like a sponge she quickly pulled it back, throwing a startled glance Will’s way. Despite his famed appetite even Jack was wary, if that suspicious look on his face was anything to go by. 

Hannibal clapped his hands and circled the table lovingly. He gave the wood a satisfied pat. 

“Thank you all for being here,” he began, “though I must admit that it is only because of Will that I was able to put this dinner together.” 

Jack shot him a hard look. Will felt heat curling up his neck and his ears. 

“This is… different,” Alana commented. 

Hannibal nodded. “Will and I, we had a disagreement regarding a lunch I had made him last week. I can now freely admit that pride got the best of me. I was unable to see that there was an unforgivable lapse in my culinary knowledge, something that Will was firm in pointing out. His honesty has lead to my improvement and for that I can only sincerely thank him.” Hannibal bowed, making Will blush even harder. Alana looked torn between being impressed and cracking up. “As my friends, you know that I will not settle for mere adequacy. I fear it is an unavoidable neurosis on my part; even psychiatrists fall prey to them.” Hannibal smiled. No one laughed. “Thus, I have conducted a great deal of research this past week and this—” he gestured expansively, taking in the entire, groaning table, “is the fruit of my labor. Now, with explanations made and thanks given where thanks are due,” another nod towards Will, “all that is left to say is, bon appetite.” He stepped to the side, gesturing for them to get started. 

No one seemed eager to move. 

“Well,” Jack finally said, patting his stomach, “I’m hungry,” and headed towards an edible skyscraper. 

“Alana?” Hannibal appeared at her elbow, holding a floral plate. Atop it was a sandwich divided into six delicate triangles. “Perhaps you would enjoy this.” 

“What is it?” She took the offered meal, smiling at his attention. 

“Something I believe you were quite fond of in your youth,” Alana’s smile widened as she took a bite, “grilled cheese.” 

And her smile curdled. For a second Will thought she was going to vomit. He’d seen it once before when a dinner of clams had disagreed with her. It was the one and only time he’d been able to touch Alana’s hair and the experience was somewhat marred by the fact that he’d been holding it out of a toilet bowl. Now, she had the same puckered look on her face. The hand not holding the plate flew to her mouth but, to Alana’s credit, she only touched her lips before swallowing thickly. She managed a shaky smile, even as she pushed the sandwich back towards Hannibal. 

“That’s…” Alana swallowed again, four times in quick succession. “that’s… ah… what’s the cheese?” 

Hannibal took the plate but frowned at it confusedly. “Limburger,” he answered. 

“Oh.” Alana lost two shades of color under her blush. 

“Dr. Lecter?” 

Jack stalked back towards their group, looking both ill and pissed. He’d found his own plate that held a deceptively normal looking tuna fish sandwich. It seemed as if Hannibal had even managed to toast the bread nicely. Jack’s expression, however, said otherwise. 

“What,” he asked, “is in this?” 

“Really, Jack. What do you imagine it is? Tuna fish, mayo, some herbs, and…” Hannibal paused, an uncertain look crossing his face. Will knew, instinctually, that he was second-guessing his ingredient choice. 

“And?” Will prompted him. He tried to keep his voice kind. 

“Ah. Roasted crickets—”

“No.” Jack didn’t exactly throw the plate but it was a near thing. The china skidded across the gleaming tablecloth until it hit another platter, causing those sandwiches to start oozing copious amounts of mustard. He marched, then turned, and raised a threatening finger Hannibal’s way. Will was fascinated by the sweat gleaming against his collar. 

“Dr. Lecter,” Jack said, his voice gaining volume, “I have a great deal of respect for your professional abilities and nearly as much for your cooking skills. But if you ever try to feed me bugs again—”

“Jack, I assure you— it’s a delicacy—”

“—I’ll be sending you to a shrink. ASAP.” 

“I already see—”

“Goodnight, Dr. Lecter.” On his way out Jack turned his finger on Will. “You. The Rainer’s house. Tomorrow. 8:00 am. I want you looking at those blood stains again.” 

Now was not the time to argue. “Right. Got it.” 

With that agreement Jack swept out the door. They heard a rattle as he tore his coat from the rack, then silence. 

“I’d better…” the words ‘make sure he’s okay’ hung in the air but Alana bit them back. She touched Hannibal’s arm, then rose up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for dinner. It was… The beer was great. Really.” Alana followed Jack, giving Will’s hand a squeeze as she passed. The hem of her gown brushed against his ankle before she too was gone. 

And just like that, Hannibal’s dinner party was over. 

“You were going for the crunch,” Will said, gesturing towards Jack’s aborted sandwich. 

Hannibal nodded. He looked as if he was coming out of shock. “Yes. Celery just seemed too bland.” 

“When I said to play with texture…”

“This is not what you meant.”

“No.” Will changed tactics, wrinkling his nose at Alana’s plate. “Limburger, Hannibal? Really? It’s American cheese or nothing. Some people are on team cheddar but they’re idiots.” His eyes roamed the length of the table taking in the endless number of disgusting looking dishes. He shook his head. “Did you really put ketchup in a peanut butter and banana sandwich? If you add anything its got to be honey. And I’m sorry, but you never use turkey bacon in a club.” He sighed. “Well, at least you got the white bread part down.” 

Hannibal smiled, just a little. “Wonder Bread,” he said, “as you suggested. I don’t believe I’ve ever bought such a generic brand before.” 

“You poor thing.” 

“I did attempt one last recipe, Will. Or rather, it was a re-attempt.” From the middle of the table Hannibal pulled a sandwich that Will hadn’t noticed before. And no wonder; it was simple (at least in comparison to the others) and was housed on a miniature plate. Even so, Will recognized a PB&J. At least, he acknowledged that is looked like one. 

He never hesitated. Hannibal hid it well but he was too devastated by his failure for Will to do that to him. He snatched half the sandwich and took a large bite. Peanut butter: creamy. Jelly, actual jelly, was of the grape variety so bonus points for catering to the customer. The bread was Wonder Bread and thus a huge leap in the right direction. However, Will’s inner five-year-old still stuck out his tongue. The peanut butter didn’t quite make it to the edges of the bread and there was way too much jelly overall. Huge globs of it filled his mouth and overpowered the peanuty taste. Will swallowed, taking the glass that Hannibal offered him. 

“Getting paranoid?” Will asked, gesturing to the water. “The taste isn’t that bad.”

“Merely cautious,” but a satisfied look was creeping onto Hannibal’s face. 

“Don’t get smug. It’s better, definitely better, but it’s about the only thing here that’s edible. You’ve still got a long way to go before you’re a sandwich master, grasshopper.” 

Hannibal frowned. “I used crickets, Will, not grasshoppers.”

“Never mind.” Will set down the plate, scrubbing a hand through his hair. A curly strand fell and clung to a slice of Lebanon, fluttering. Honestly, it probably improved the taste. 

“I suppose this dinner was quite the failure then,” Hannibal said. 

“The PB&J was better.”

“But not good.” His voice was sharp. Not angry, but demanding an honest answer. 

“No, not good. Not yet. And the rest…”

“Terrible.” 

“That’s really an understatement. Sorry.” 

Hannibal stood, pursing his lips in a frustrated expression. “As I have said, you have nothing to be sorry for, Will. If anything, I greatly appreciate your candor. That speech I gave to Jack and Alana was not for show.” 

Will felt his cheeks heating again. 

“The only question that now remains is what I am to do with all this.” He waved his hand. The gesture was a tad wild. “We have already established that your dogs would not appreciate it.”

“You know, I have never had Diana turn down food before. Even non-food. Toilet paper, plastic containers, she’s got a taste for those brown spiny things that come off the trees—” Will paused. “And I’m making things worse, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps.” 

“Right. Sorry. Again. Just… yeah. So what are you planning to do? You’ve got enough here to feed an army.”

“Food kitchen?” Hannibal thoughtfully tapped one finger against his lips. 

But Will screwed up his face, looking like a kid who’d swallowed bad medicine. “Don’t do that to the poor homeless people.” 

“Then perhaps you have a better suggestion?” he sighed. “I truly don’t want it all going to waste.” 

Will didn’t answer. Instead he started wandering towards the exit, Hannibal falling into step behind him. It was only when his host had helped him into his coat that he leaned against the doorframe, considering the dining room and all that was in it. 

“You’re cooking,” Will began, “most of your cooking, is amazing. It really is. But Hannibal, no one deserves to eat that.” 

Hannibal coughed. “Thank you,” he said dryly. 

“No, wait. What I mean is, maybe someone does deserve it. You’ve always been concerned with how rude people can be,” a grin started peeking through Will’s tired expression, “so give the sandwiches to someone rude. I don’t know. At least it won’t go to waste.”

Hannibal stared at him. He didn’t say anything but Will took it as his cue. 

“Night,” he said, “thanks for the non-meal.” 

Will slipped out the door, ignorant of what he’d started. 

***  
In the following months the Chesapeake Ripper took seven lives. Beverly noted in her reports that these latest victims consistently died with full stomachs yet the ingredients varied: breads, meats, condiments, leafy greens, and strangely, the occasional bug. Beverly didn’t find this terribly significant so she only mentioned it in passing to Jack. Jack, in turn, didn’t bother telling Will. 

Will never made the connection. 

***

Months passed. Hannibal’s sandwich making didn’t improve. 

“This has been on your mind a great deal lately.” Dr. Bedelia re-crossed her legs, waiting Hannibal out. When he didn’t respond she prompted, “This is the fifth time you’ve mentioned it.” 

Hannibal unclasped his hands, raising them in a gesture of feigned indifference. 

“You don’t find it odd that you’ve fixated on this minor shortcoming?” she asked. 

“I do not consider it minor.” 

“Therein lies my point.” 

“It is merely a difference of opinion. What you consider a shortcoming I view as a legitimate concern. I take great pride in my cooking, Doctor, and it upsets me that I’ve discovered an area that resists my mastery of it. But there is nothing wrong with self improvement.” 

“There is when it becomes obsessive.” 

Hannibal tried not to smile. “Do you think I’m obsessed, Doctor?”

“You tell me.” Once again she received no response. “I’m more interested in how this new ‘concern’ relates to Will Graham.” 

“You often are. Interested in Will, I mean.”

“Only when my patient is.” Bedelia gave him a long stare. “It’s true that this all began when Will rejected one of your meals, what, four months ago? No doubt that shook your confidence. But would that experience have had the same impact if, say, it was Jack Crawford who’d been so critical of your food?” Hannibal looked about to speak but Bedelia plowed on. “Since then you’ve been manic in your attempts to improve. I know you, Hannibal. No doubt you’ve done a great deal of research and applied that new knowledge to your work in the kitchen.” He nodded his assent. “I also heard about the dinner party— no, I won’t say who told me – and I saw you at the farmer’s market last week. Friday morning? I know you have patients then. Don’t tell me you rescheduled just to go shopping.” 

Again, silence. Until: “What are you implying, Doctor?”

“I’m not implying. I’m asking. Are you obsessing over this because you truly want to improve or because you want to prove yourself to Will Graham?” 

A brief look of anger crossed Hannibal’s face. His jaw tightened and his eyes dropped ten degrees below zero. However, after a moment he seemed to reconsider. Instead Hannibal relaxed, even going so far as to stretch out his legs. The position looked more comfortable than his normal, precise posture and the change did not go unnoticed. Here was a man settling in; prepared to continue the conversation indefinitely. At least, that was the picture Hannibal was trying to paint. 

“Will is my friend,” he said. “One of a few. Is it so wrong to want to impress him?” 

“It is when you cross boundaries in order to do so.” 

“Boundaries?”

“He’s your patient, Hannibal, and he often seems unstable. You can’t be a support for Will if you’re always looking for his approval.” Bedelia tilted her head, a frown starting to form. “I also fear that you may begin to lose yourself. You focus too much on others’ perceptions of you.” 

“My ‘person suit.’” 

“Yes.” 

Hannibal leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then what would you suggest, Doctor? You yourself have observed that this… fixation has been going on for months. How to break it? How can I help my friend and keep from losing myself, as you say?” 

“Just be yourself.” Bedelia smiled, an acknowledgement of how useless that advice actually was. “You have stumbled across something that gives you difficulty and your attempts to improve have failed. So? There are numerous things that you are good at, Hannibal, things that lend you strength. They will allow you to pass that strength onto your friends. Focus on that.”

“My strengths,” Hannibal murmured. 

“Yes. What are you good at?” 

Slowly, a smile crept onto Hannibal’s face. He even showed some teeth. 

“I see. Thank you, Doctor. This session has been most enlightening.” 

***

Will bit into the sandwich, his eyes widening as he hit the meat. It was wonderful. Delicious. Tender in a way that ruled out turkey. It was paired with good, old-fashioned mayonnaise and some of that left over Wonder Bread. The entire combination was simple but pleasantly filling. 

“Wow, Hannibal,” he said. “This is great!”

Winston stuck his nose in Will’s lap, begging for a taste. Diana whined from under the table. Neither shied away from the sandwich. 

There was definitely a smirk curving Hannibal’s lips. “Why thank you, Will.” 

“You’ve definitely mastered this sandwich, I’ll give you that.” Will lifted one corner of the bread and peeked inside. “What is it, anyway?”

“Now, now. Give me a moment to savor my success. And enjoy the meal before you start dissecting it.” 

Will chuckled and raised said meal in a toast. “Of course. Well done, Hannibal.” 

He graciously nodded his head. 

“Seriously though, what is it? Some sort of rare mammal I’ve never even heard of?”

Hannibal took out his handkerchief, offering it to Will and gesturing to the mayo on his cheek. “Oh,” he said, “nothing quite that uncommon. Let us just say that… I had an old friend for dinner and I felt it best to… make use of him… while he was around. I have always had great taste in people.” He grinned a shark’s grin. 

“Well I’m glad he could help you. This is a huge improvement.” Will took an enormous bite of the sandwich, manners be damned. “And I’m glad that I’m reaping the benefits!” 

“Only the best for you, Will.” 

They settled into silence. The only sound was the dogs, each eager for a taste but knowing they wouldn’t get one. After a time Hannibal sat at his friend’s kitchen table, kicking back. There was no rush. He was prepared to watch Will eat to the very last bite.


End file.
